Chapter 1: The Eel Under the Mississippi Sun

When my Uncle Darrell was cleaning up the muddy banks of the Mississippi, the thick smell of wet earth and river water hung in the air. He dug up a massive yellow eel, several feet long, its body slick and writhing in the mud.

The sun was already sinking, painting the water with a burnt orange glow that shimmered through the haze. Uncle Darrell, always boasting about his fishing skills, hoisted the squirming eel high like a championship catch. His grin stretched wide, sweat trickling down his brow as he adjusted his grip to keep the beast from slipping free. He glanced around, making sure no one was watching, then crouched and started building a makeshift fire pit out of driftwood and river stones, flicking his old Zippo lighter from his tackle box until it sparked.

He couldn’t resist the thought of fresh eel. With practiced hands, he stacked the driftwood, arranged it just right, and coaxed a flame to life. The fire crackled, casting long shadows on the muddy shore as he readied the eel for roasting.

The sizzle of the eel mingled with the river’s earthy aroma, smoke curling into the humid evening air. Uncle Darrell hummed a snatch of Johnny Cash as he cooked, flipping the eel with a stick and sprinkling salt from his pocket. When it was done, he tore off juicy chunks, eating with greedy delight, the juices dripping down his chin. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, tossed the bones into the reeds, and kept glancing over his shoulder, nerves prickling as if he expected company—or something worse.

That night, Uncle Darrell was summoned by a mysterious figure to a market that didn’t belong to the living. The air was thick with unnatural silence, and the porch lights flickered as if disturbed by unseen hands, hinting at something sinister lurking just beyond the edge of reality.

The house was silent except for the slow, rhythmic creak of the porch swing. Far off, a train whistle cut through the night, and the chirp of crickets filled the darkness. After midnight, Aunt Brenda heard footsteps crunching the gravel and a low, strange call of her husband’s name—drawn out, almost echoing. Darrell, half-asleep, stumbled to the door, pulled by a voice he couldn’t place. The air was colder than usual, heavy and thick with dread. As he stepped outside, the darkness pressed in, swallowing him as he walked toward the empty road.

At dawn, he woke sprawled in an old, forgotten cemetery, dew soaking his clothes.

The sun rose on Darrell, stretched out on damp grass between crooked Confederate headstones, his jeans streaked with mud and moss. He blinked at the faded names etched in stone, shivering as kudzu crept over the graves. The cemetery was wild and overgrown, silent but for the cawing crows overhead. He staggered home, mud caked on his hands, the smell of wet earth clinging to him, his eyes glazed and mumbling about things no one could see.

After coming home, Darrell’s mind began to unravel. He sat silent at breakfast, his spoon clinking against his bowl, staring at the wall for hours, barely speaking. The family watched as something dark crept over him, and by nightfall, his grip on reality slipped away.